


The Thing in the Pews

by RipVanWinkle



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Dark, Demon Keith (Voltron), Horror, M/M, Murder, Pacts With Demons, Revenge, Witch Lance (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 01:05:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16545848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RipVanWinkle/pseuds/RipVanWinkle
Summary: "You bring the scent of scorched flesh with you, white witch."Based onshiwden'sdemon!Keith and witch!LanceAU.





	The Thing in the Pews

On the edge of a trifecta of solitary villages rests a dilapidated stone pathway. The path is littered with overgrown weeds sprouting like little bouts of plague between the cracks in the rock, and lantern bearers stand cold in a lifeless vigil at every turn. It appears harmless enough, perhaps a jaunt not so carelessly taken at its worst, and simply a dreary sight at its best. That is, until you reach the fork in the road some furlongs down. 

One has two options to take. They can continue left with the natural curve of the stone and follow the carefully crafted signs motioning the traveler along a three day odd journey to the next town. They will find the pathway brightening considerably the further they distance themselves from the fork. They will not think much of it, as is the desire of the ancient stone. 

Or, one can go right, if they are conscious enough to break free of the charming warmth of the left. There are no signs to guide them here. As the traveler rambles onward, the stone sinks lower and lower into the ground until it gives way to solid, ashy earth. 

It is at this point that no horse or carriage may continue. Wheels shatter, horses go mad- there is no shortage of unfortunate events that prevent continuing forward. One should be careful, if they decide to navigate the fog by foot, not to stray from the marked trail, regardless of what they might hear crawling after them in the underbrush. 

It will get dark even in midday, even with the hot summer sun beating down. The trees creep closer to the path, their branches lowering gradually as if to snatch at the hair and clothes of the weary traveler, until they cram so tightly in that there is no differentiating them and the blackness. One might think something watches them from the bark of the trunks. They are encouraged to ignore the urge to stop and turn their head at all cost.

Like all paths, it leads to a final destination. A crumbling crag perimeter, its use of which is unknown, and a rusting iron fence curling like a feline grin in a grand barbed arch around a building stuck in time. The church has long since been abandoned by its anchorites but not even the paint peels from its woodwork. Its solid bluestone steps appear freshly swept and its grand stained glass windows gleam with signs of a detailed caregiver. The massive double doors are stubbornly shut but the bell hanging beside them works just fine. 

At first glance one would think it a normal sanctuary. Perhaps a little strange for such a remote location, so deep in the wooden barrens, but a church nonetheless. Most will keep it at this, overcome with a sudden desire to leave whoever dwells within at peace and abruptly turning around and ending their journey as swiftly as it had begun.

Nothing more will come of the event, of the path, of the church, and the wise traveler might just experience the stray night terror for the next fortnight or so. Truly this is the most preferable outcome.

With the wise also come the stupid, however. A journeyman who gazes upon the church, notices its flaws for what they are, and decides to enter anyways. The gouges in the mahogany doors are obvious threats, the stooping tiled roof like a hat’s brim pulled down low over a scrooge's face. One might think,  _ if this is a church, where are its crosses?  _ and  _ if it is abandoned, who is that staring at me from the stained glass window?  _

It may be overzealous to deem one who takes that first step onto the damned grounds only ‘stupid.’ They surely realize the magnitude of their decision. Only a choice few can make it as far as they have, after all. Those blessed- or cursed, depending on who is asked- with a spirit that lingers between veils, and the vicarious offspring of devilry and augury that wear human skin like a favorite shirt. Jezebels and corinthians capable of grandiose feats of magic, the  _ witches,  _ as ordinary folk dub them. No typical human would dare continue forward. The steady gaze in the window gives even coven masters pause. One would need great courage, great stupidity, or great contempt to reach out to those doors. 

Unfortunately, Leandro McClain has all three.

 

* * *

 

The mahogany doors glide open with a garish creek, the wood catching along the paneled flooring and requiring a harsher push. The sound grows increasingly foreboding as McClain steps within the damp, open hall. It echoes off the high rafters and plays in the rows of graveyard pews before returning to him. Out of courtesy he makes the effort to shut the doors behind him. He does not wish to bother the specters sitting in their seats. 

He studiously ignores their bowed bald heads and naked backs and barely-there Latin chants. They do not exist on his own physical plane and he has no desire to invite them to it. The only light offered quite kindly to his inferior human senses emanates from a small iron chandelier above his head. The fire of its candles flickers with a breeze, or a breath, that McClain himself cannot feel. He walks further down the aisle while holding his heavy leather sack tightly to his side. He is careful not to allow it to graze the pews.

At the head of the aisle, at the very pinnacle of that lonely stone pathway in the woods, stands a young boy. He faces an altar set built on a higher platform but, unlike the others, he does not participate in prayer. McClain slows in his approach until he stops at the edge of the line of pews. The Witch silently watches the Boy and waits to be addressed as he was told.

The Boy is thin and fragile, his arms no larger than McClain’s wrist at their thickest circumference. He is nude but shows no signs of feeling the chill of the hall. His long raven hair is surprisingly clean and thick. It reaches no further than his shoulders, straight and unevenly chopped. 

The people of McClain’s village all share a common dark complexion, ranging from a lighter tan to a deep black. McClain, himself, has flesh the color of sand, the bottom of his feet and palms of his hands much lighter. The Boy is the same grotesque pale all over, even on his nethers. An exception are the tips of his fingers that hang by his thighs. They are stark black as if he suffers from frostbite. 

If McClain had to give the Boy an age he would say around nine or ten years. This does little to soothe the trepidation within. Finally, the Boy moves from his careful attendance over the altar and faces the Witch. He knows instantly, if he had not before, that the Boy is not of this world. He wonders which circle of Hell this dastard belongs to and then banishes the thought from his mind. One must be without distraction when they meet a daemon.

The Boy is, on all accounts, just that. A boy. His eyes are a pleasant violet, his features of common Asian origin, and he is neither beautiful nor ugly. He stares at McClain dispassionately for a moment before his plush lips quirk into baleful smile. His expression is of a child who is unimpressed with his elders. McClain refuses to speak until spoken to and the quiet drags on between them. The Boy likes this and McClain knows he will be permitted to converse now that he has shown proper respect. 

McClain gazes unblinkingly into the other’s stoic eyes. One must never look away from a hellion, one must never be distracted, one must never speak unless spoken to. He goes down the list of rules in his head but does not allow himself to become too invested. The Boy will be able to take advantage of the gap in cognitive protection.

The Boy speaks and it is as if someone sucked all of the air out of the room. The candle fire whips back and forth. The chanting ceases. 

_ “You bring the stench of scorched flesh with you, white witch.” _

McClain is not sure how to describe the Boy’s voice. He can see the daemon’s lips move and his eardrums vibrate with sound, but there is no sense to the noise. It is like a static nothing, only forming words after a second delay of his mind trying to catch up. The Boy continues.

_ “It clings to you like a second skin. Had much tragedy, have you?” _

Something made from the shadows of the altar darts around McClain’s legs, a material like coarse dog fur grazing his boots. He does not fall for the trick. His stare stays heavy on the Boy’s and he sees the beginnings of poorly concealed humor there. He swallows before speaking, baring all emotion from his flat tone, “Allow me patronage, Mephistopheles.” 

The Boy raises a single thick eyebrow but grants a curt nod.

_ “Mephistopheles? No need for formalities, lad, we are all friends here.” _

There is faint hysterical laughter behind McClain, coming from the pews he tried so vehemently to overlook. It curdles his blood like sour milk in the sun. His throat hurts from how tightly he clenches his muscles against the gasp that begs to wrench from him. Something stands from the pews in the corner of his eye. It does not move and the laughter fades away, its memory a ghostly haunt along his chilled skin.

The Boy’s eyes flicker down to the leather sack McClain holds in his tight right fist. Blood drips from the soaked bottom into a shallow puddle below. His mouth parts to show a maw of shark teeth and his forked tongue snakes out to lick lasciviously at his lips in a slow drag. 

_ “Oh, naughty, naughty, white witch. You are supposed to protect humans, are you not? Heal their ailments, kiss their wounds, and so forth?” _

McClain answers as a swarm of pincher beetles crawls along the ground. He does not look at them or acknowledge their incessant high-pitched hissing. “It is a gift.”

The Boy steps closer to McClain, reaching out with his burnt fingers towards the bag. As he draws nearer McClain’s head begins to pound with the onset of a migraine. His forehead breaks out into a dreadful sweat and he can feel his clothes growing sticky with perspiration. It is becoming terribly hot within the church, as if someone set fire to the altar beside them without him noticing. He finds it difficult to hand the bag over, the muscles in his arms suddenly growing weary from the long journey here. He wants to close his eyes for just a moment. He ought to smack himself. He can not allow the daemon to spy holes in his resolve.

McClain is careful to not touch the Boy’s fingers. The Boy takes the sodden bag and opens it, reaching inside with one small hand to unveil the severed head of Father Iverson. His strong nose scrunches in apparent distaste and McClain’s stomach drops to his boots. 

_ “This is no servant of God.” _

The Witch watches in pensive silence as the Boy drops the bag to further inspect the gift. Without thought of the mess it will make, he spins it around in his tiny hands. Black droplets splatter across the ground, across the Boy’s naked chest, across McClain’s sky blue robes. It takes great concentration for McClain to not jerk away from the gore. The Witch’s mouth feels dry as he answers, “No, he isn’t. Not anymore.”

The Boy’s lifeless eyes cut to him and his heart skips a beat rather painfully. The blood on the daemon’s chest is ink on his paper-white flesh. It terrifies McClain just as much as it enamors him. 

_ “In what manner did you kill him, witch?” _

McClain almost winces at the word.  _ Kill.  _ He never thought he would become a murderer. Then again, he never thought he would be so foolish as to willingly approach a monster. The thing that stood in the pews has since moved closer to the altar. It has no face but he knows it watches him lustfully. It is naked, like the Boy, but McClain cannot make out its nethers when he refuses to look at it. It is but a curious blur. He catches his eyes beginning to drift towards it, slinking away from the daemon before him, and quickly corrects himself.

He could not have looked away from the Boy for even a sliver of a second but it is enough. The Boy is now standing taller at a height equaling McClain’s. His shoulders have grown broad and his hands, once so tiny, now easily encompass Father Iverson’s head. He has aged at least ten years in the span of nothing. 

McClain chokes on his own spit and regains eye contact with the Boy. The beast’s face is suddenly inhumanly beautiful. Instead of envy, lust, or awe, McClain feels nothing more than the confusion of terrified paranoia. He answers as if nothing happened, as if he is not about to soak his trousers in piss, “I seduced him.” He blurts. His hands shake minutely.

This makes the Boy grin in childish delight. He gestures for McClain to continue.

Nervously, the Witch complies, “I went to his cottage in the dead of night. He had been watching me for weeks. He made many propositions. He threatened my sister if I did not allow him to take me.” His jaw clenches and he keeps his eyes off the head in the Boy’s hands. He cannot allow anger to blind him. “I undressed as he demanded and, while he was distracted by my naked body, I slit his jugular.”

The Boy digs his thumb into the corresponding wound in the shreds of Father Iverson’s throat. Black sludge squelches beneath the pad and the Boy brings his thumb to his mouth. His forked serpent tongue licks along it and sucks the gunk inside. McClain trails off as he stares, torn between disgust and perverted pleasure at seeing the remains of his family’s murderer so heinously treated.

_ “Tell me, witch, did you enjoy it?” _

McClain gives a start at the question, nausea building in his plummeting stomach, “Certainly not.” The words taste putrid.

The Boy’s violet eyes flash a startling crimson, his pupils constricting into snakelike slits. His fingers dig new cuts into the freezing flesh of Father Iverson’s head and his grin droops into a disappointed frown. 

_ “Do not lie to a creature born of deceit, witch. You are very bad at it.” _

The fury in the Boy’s tone is enough to have even McClain consider begging God for salvation. It presses down upon him as if the Boy were placing stone after stone on his chest in an effort to slowly crush him. He thinks of his poor mother, her face contorted in agony as Father Iverson commanded his disciples to continue with their torture. He knows he is lying. “My-my apologies,” Stammers McClain, the blood rushing from his face, “please, I meant no disrespect.”

Just like that, the tangible cloud of oppressive anger dissipates. The Boy’s face goes stoic once more. He stares unblinkingly at McClain, his eyes cold and distant as if looking straight through the Witch. The thing in the pews shuffles closer. 

_ “You have broken your sacred vow.” _

The harsh truth the Boy speaks cuts messily into McClain’s stomach, like a dull saw blade through deer meat. He takes a quick breath before nodding his agreement. Like turning the knob on a lantern, the Boy’s icy features brighten into an expression much more startling. His slow smoky smirk is undeniably hungry, his twinkling irises hold a familiar debauchery that reminds him of the passed Father. A quake rushes down his brittle spine.

The daemon leans forwards at the waist towards the Witch, his mouth parting and his tongue delicately tasting the air. His thin lids flutter as his eyeballs roll upwards in a show of great pleasure. McClain cannot help his flinch this time but the Boy seems too preoccupied to notice. The Boy’s next words are spoken with fetishistic glee as his eyes refocus on the trembling Witch.

_ “Yet remain a virgin.” _

A sudden thud, followed by a crude holler of excitement, almost startle McClain enough to look away from the Boy again. But he learned his lesson last time. God only knows what shape the ghastly thing would take if he made the same mistake twice. There is a presence, now, at the back of his neck, as if someone were standing hunched over and allowing their mouth to hover there. The daemon is persistent.

_ “This is good, your purity...it will make you stronger. It will make  _ us  _ stronger.” _

It is only the deed that still remains to be done that keeps McClain’s grueling contempt for their association off his face. 

_ “And when I tear that goodness away, you will be born anew.” _

McClain’s mouth is as dry as the barren winter of this land. He thinks of his sisters and brothers, of his Coven, of Father Iverson’s faux righteousness and of the cries of death still ringing in his bloodied ears. The Boy disgusts the Witch, indeed, but his hatred runs deeper. Where his so-named  _ goodness  _ once bolstered his magicka now resides a putrid nest of loathed maggot larva. All he needs is something for them to feed upon, an enmity that burns even hotter than his own.

So the Witch nods again, “I beg of you, Mephistopheles, take me. Take this body of mine and do what you will.”

The Boy continues to stare blankly.

“All that I ask is that you carry out my revenge.”

The Boy’s smirk curves into a frightful smile. It stretches impossibly wide across his crocodile teeth until McClain is sure he can see the whites of cheekbone. The presence at his back huffs quietly as if in humored jest. He can no longer spot the thing in the pews in his peripheral. It is so very dark within the church.

_ “What is your name, child of the Moon?” _

The Witch swallows shallowly. There is no turning back once he offers the name of his spirit. He will forever belong to the abomination before him. 

His mother shrieks in the back of his mind, his sisters drown at the bottom of a lake in his stomach. His brothers’ unblessed ashes still blacken the worn lines of his tired face. 

The specters in the pews murmurs softly again, each voice belonging to the villagers. They curse his family name, jeer as he is chased out of town and into the woods in the dead of night. They follow him all the way up the path until the magic keeps them away. The specters mimic them perfectly.

The Boy is grinning because he knows the Witch’s resolve. There is nothing a daemon enjoys more than relishing in the anguish of God’s children.

“Leandro.” He finalizes, “Leandro Charles McClain.”

The Boy reaches out, presses a single blackened hand over McClain’s heart. The cloth there begins to decay with an accelerated march of time.

_ “The doors of Heaven have long since closed for you, Leandro, but do not worry. A different sort of salvation awaits.” _

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. As the summary stated, this was based on [shiwden's](http://shiwden.tumblr.com/) demon!Keith and witch!Lance [AU](http://shiwden.tumblr.com/image/179347715960) on tumblr. Please go check their art out, it's amazing!!!
> 
> A little late for Halloween but who cares really.  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://ronswansoneatsmyass.tumblr.com/) if you enjoyed this, I post writing all the time and take prompts constantly!


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